


Phantasm

by macabre



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:28:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabre/pseuds/macabre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU/Prequel. Eames is the original developer of Somnacin and dream sharing. Fischer is the money behind him. They fall in love for the first and last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantasm

He can’t escape the news; not when it’s on the televisions in the stores, on the wristbands of pedestrians, projected on the sides of buildings, inked in the last print paper sliding under his door. What he can do is tune it out, or pretend this isn’t real, but when he pulls out his pocket watch from the inside of his jacket, he knows that this is indeed real. It just doesn’t have to be his only reality.

Standing in a thick line in a popular café, Robert Fischer waits patiently while those around him idly watch the top evening news. The top daily news has been the same for a week now, and it’s only his haggard form hidden beneath sweltering sweaters and baggy pants that saves Robert from being a part of it. If he were to dare look, he’d seen himself in just the briefest of scenes on the television: he’s there, standing in a suit, the first suit he’s worn in awhile, and the camera tries to zoom in on his face. Around him a collection of mourners shield him where he stands in the front near the casket, so the camera captures mostly a wave of faceless black. They can’t have his face. Not then, and not now. 

If anything, it’s his eyes that people recognize now. As he pays for his coffee, the worker glances at him, but only for a split second, as if the blues of his eyes have faded just like the rest of him. He shuffles to the side and isn’t sure if he’s glad to be so unrecognizable to the world; even in his old circles, the men that have followed in his footsteps, or the men that bought off pieces of his company – they wouldn’t spare him a glance now. 

He ambles back to the hotel, and because he’s strictly in reality for the moment, it takes him longer than he always expects it to. He sighs, opening the door and shuffling into the empty room. There’s only one suitcase in the room, and it’s too small for clothing. He picks up the small, silver case and carries it to the bed. Pushes up the big sleeve of his sweater and opens the case. 

The phone rings. He doesn’t answer.

The next time he opens his eyes, he’s in their house, the one they bought shortly after his fortieth birthday, and it’s the only house he ever lived in. He grew up in high-rise penthouses with cold steel and impersonal doormen, but he loved this house, even though it was in the country and far away from everything they had built together. It was all new territory to the both of them, living in secluded quiet off a dirt road barely big enough for one car to pass down. The only other living thing for several miles was a stray tomcat that sometimes would come round, or other days they’d catch him sitting on a fence post by the diary farm down the road. 

“Congratulations love, we are officially living in a spread of _Country Living_ ,” he says, obstructed by the newspaper in his face. Robert pauses in the doorway, the one in the back that leads from their kitchen to their garden. 

Clenching his jaw, Robert enters the house, not bothering to remove his muddy shoes. He remembers this day; they’d been living in the house for about five months, and it was spring. This garden, the one he was sure would be a disaster because it was the first thing he’d ever nurtured that required real love and affection, was in full bloom. Well, he nurtured that and one other thing.

Pulling the paper down from his face, Robert leans into Eames, kissing his temple sweetly. This was one of his favorite ages on Eames – his hair was peppered with grey, although still mostly a dark blonde, and he perpetually had stumble no matter what time of the day it was. Established firmly in the field, he gave up the suits and wore faded denim and plaid shirts around not only the house, but into the labs and the press conferences. 

Glancing down, Robert realizes he is still dressed in pressed navy pants and a white button up, even though he was doing the gardening. Old habits die hard. Just not yet. It was another few years before he retired his tailored suits and began wearing Eames’ shirts and wrinkled pants. Smiling, he kisses Eames again, this time at the corner of his mouth.

“Aren’t you proud of me? Wasn’t it you that told me I’d never be able to grow anything beyond stocks and bonds?” 

Eames hums, folding the paper and sliding free of the table. Robert settles into his lap and leans in close to the smell of coffee on his breath. “I’d say we’ve built more than that, darling.”

The hairs on the back of Robert’s neck stand up, because he’s always been fairly sure Eames wasn’t referring to their relationship when he said this. He was referring to the private lab they had built right down the road from the little house. It was a replica of the one they had in LA all those years ago, when they were young foolish men. 

“Back to work already?” Robert’s mouth moves on it’s own. This dialogue he has memorized. 

“I’m the brains, you’re the money,” he says cheerfully, kissing his forehead and standing. Robert slides off his lap, never taking his eyes off of him. His beautiful, beautiful genius. “Or the beauty. I’m not sure which.” Still chuckling, Eames lopes lazily out the door. It’s so sunny out, he disappears in it. 

The memory dissolves, unbidden. This time he’s standing in their LA lab, and there’s no grey in Eames’ hair, and they’re both in suits. 

“I don’t understand. You’re claiming you’ve developed a drug that will connect two people mentally?” Robert looks over the charts and molecule designs in front of him. They don’t mean anything to him, but the man standing in front of him grins.

“Not exactly. Dream sharing isn’t a new idea after all, and all it does is link dreamers into a dream together, a shared conscious state constructed by one or both of them.” His smile is so easy. Too easy. It makes Robert uncomfortable, because he’s not sure he’s ever smiled like that. “I think I’d pay to walk through your dreams, Mr. Fischer.” 

The man is leaning over the table right into his space, the grin now gone predatory. Robert half expects him to wiggle his eyebrows or wink to complete the caricature of a fool. “Right. I’ll just take home some of this documentation to review, shall I?”

“Or I can give you a demonstration.” The man’s face has changed. He isn’t smiling anymore, but his countenance remains self-assured. He stands upright and turns back to another table where various instruments, some of which look more like torture devices, are laid out. Eames must notice his questioning look, because he adds, “Or we could make memories the stuff that dreams are made of.” This time, he does wink. 

Clearing his throat, Robert takes a step away from Eames. “That’ll be all for now, I think. I’ll get in touch with you shortly if we feel your research is a good fit for the company.” 

Now he’s supposed to leave the room, leave the building, and go across town to the headquarters of his father’s business. Maurice Fischer only has a few years to live; he dies before their combined work on dream sharing is ever published in any capacity, which is fine, because he knows that his father would have never supported the area of research he ended up spending most of his time in. 

But in this dream, Robert walks away because he knows he’s supposed to. He knows the time on the PASIV is almost up, so he puts his hand on the door and wonders when he’ll ever feel the same. 

A hand on his stops him. “Be careful, Mr. Fischer. It doesn’t do well to dwell on dreams.” Robert stops. It’s Eames telling him this, but this wasn’t part of their original conversation. It’s happened before of course, when his dreams of memories alter in different forms, usually just a change in the weather or décor, but Robert has held onto memories of Eames so well that these kind of changes rarely happen.

“Eames?” It’s a whisper, and a desperate grab. Robert holds him there, in his young arms, his ghost arms, and runs his fingers over the man’s face. Eames allows it, smiling the one genuine smile he saved only for him. 

“I love you, you know.” 

“I know.” 

When he wakes up, he’s alone, and although the antique clock near the bed ticks, he’s sure his heart has stopped. He listens to it – tick, tick, tick. Then his heart steadies. He pushes himself up and is confronted by a mirror across the bed; his hair is grey-white again, and the wrinkles in his skin grow longer. He feels the loose skin under his arms and his soft belly. Sometimes waking up from dreams he doesn’t recognize himself. It’s a risk he was always more than willing to take. He often wished he could forge identities like Eames was able to do later; to slip into another’s skin. Robert would have given anything. 

One of the first side effects they found with the Somnacin was the loss of natural born dreaming. During their trials, subjects including themselves experienced increase fatigue with every dose they had. They didn’t keep dream diaries for their own normal dreams at night initially, but when Eames suggested it, they all slowly came to the same realization. There were no more dreams. Only the ones Somnacin could provide. 

Robert is ashamed to admit after his initial horror over the fact he would never dream solo again, could barely daydream at that point, his next thought was that demand for the drug would go through the roof. It was habit forming if there ever was such a thing. People would need it to continue functioning normally.

But many years down the line and they never did release it to the public. There were other forms of it, drugs even worse than what theirs had to offer, drugs that put people comatose or brain dead or both. All this was underground; no major corporation boasted such research, and for good reason. 

Fortunately, Eames was brilliant. After three years of intense focus on dream sharing, he slowly began reaching out in other areas. He worked on medications of all kinds – psychiatric drugs, withdrawal drugs, and anesthetics. Over a career of nearly forty years, he helped more people than he would ever fully comprehend, but his obsession was Somnacin. It was to be his crowning jewel.

Except Robert knew better after so long. Dream sharing would never be a feasible sell. Too many complications. It was simply a life lost. He grasps his jacket over the breast pocket; feels the attached watch inside. They all had anxiety problems after habitual use. They dug too far, went too deep, and not everyone woke up. 

The hospital they put Cobb in was the best. They dealt with everything and everyone, and Cobb wasn’t the first person who thought he was living in a different world. 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Eames hissed at him, pacing back and forth in the visiting area. “He’ll never recover here. He’ll just go mad. Really mad!” 

Robert didn’t say anything. When Cobb no longer believed that his children were really his, he tried drowning them and himself. His wife took custody of them and moved to another country. Robert made the call to the hospital. 

“We could help him. Just the two of us. We’ve always known Dom better than anyone.” Robert didn’t bother correcting him. It was always Eames and Cobb planning and dreaming together. Robert and Dom knew each other only in the most vague of ways.

“Hey,” Robert said gently, taking his hand. “Deep breath. Do you have yours?” Eames pulled out his poker chip at the same time as Robert pulled out his watch. They kept one hand on each other and one on their totem. “We can’t watch him all the time. But they can. They can make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“Yeah, but for how long? How long are we going to leave him here?”

Dominick Cobb died in the hospital, just two weeks into his stay. Eames threw his poker chip out the window of their twenty-story apartment and refused to retrieve it until the next day despite Robert’s insistence. “It’s real. I’m real. You’re real.” They avoided dreaming for several weeks after that. 

It wasn’t just Cobb though; one night Robert woke to the sounds of someone storming through his kitchen. When he flicked on the lights, he narrowly avoided the knife in Eames’ hand. “What are you doing with that?” he asked as his own hand flew to his bare chest. No jacket – no watch. 

“Nothing darling. Go back to bed.” Eames’ voice was meant to be reassuring, but was squashed by the hard look in his eye. He looked over Robert and turned away coldly. 

Gently, very gently, Robert was able to pry the knife out of his hand. “I’m not going without you. Now come on.” Glassy-eyed, Eames followed him that time. Other times they’d argue until Eames left, and Robert would balance how much time to give him to calm down with how much time he could afford before his partner might hurt himself.

It was always Robert’s job to follow him, his genius partner who sprinted toward the end line no matter what the cost. It was Robert who held him together at the end. The late nights were the worst – when they’d wake up from dreaming all day without feeling any kind of rest or excitement of newfound wisdom, and then be confronted by a sleepy world they were no longer part of. Many nights were spent not sleeping at all; Eames worked on improving chemical balances or philosophizing about the things they could control while under. For Robert, the sleepless nights were spent wondering if it was worth it. Funny. Now it’s his last lifeline. 

In his hotel room, Robert shuffles to the window and looks out, except he’s only a few stories up. He never takes high floors anymore. Better now to have the restricted views. The PASIV case behind him is closed, exposing just how used it is. There are scratches, paint marks, dents – initials. They aren’t his. 

A knock at the door. Robert glances at it, but makes no move to open it. “Robert, it’s me. Ariadne. Open the door.” He hesitates a few moments longer, then lopes uneasily to the door. His joints are stiff from lying down still.

He tries to smile at her in the doorway, but he’s not sure how successful he is. Even though her hair is nearly as grey as his, she’s as lovely as ever in a pressed suit and glasses worn on a necklace. “What are you doing here? As much as I appreciate all the calls, I did stop paying you fifteen years ago, you know.”

Frowning, she takes his arm and gently pulls him towards the table inside the room. “You should sit down. You look exhausted.” She positively tucks him into the chair, with a blanket and all. “Shall I call for some tea?”

“Really Ariadne, no need for that.” He tries to flick his hand in nonchalance, but all it does is make his body ache more. She narrows her eyes.

“You really should use a different alias. I’m surprised no one has caught you here yet.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” They settle into a momentary silence, in which Ariadne kicks off her heels and riffles through her purse. Her hand stills on something inside. Robert can guess what it is.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral.” She starts quietly, placing her bishop on the table. Idly, she runs her fingers along it. “I didn’t hear the news until it was too late. We were in Mumbai. I came as soon as I could.”

She knocks the chess piece over. It clatters loudly against the wood table. Robert blinks. He stares hard at her face, looking for signs of weakness. There are none. “I watched you on the monitors on the plane.” How small he’s become in that suit. He can tell she’s sizing him up. “They nailed the guy who brought in the camera.”

He sighs. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?” She reaches for his hand across the table. Squeezes it. 

“I’m so sorry, Robert.” He blinks again, this time with tears. He pulls his hand away, because what does she know? Arthur is tucked away somewhere, safe and breathing. She doesn’t understand. Not yet. “I don’t know what else to say, except how sorry I am.”

“What do you want, Ariadne?” They all want something, after all. His face stays composed, even as the few tears slide down his face. 

“Why are you still here, Robert?” He’s far from their country home, but while he aches for the quiet, he wonders how he’ll ever be able to return. There’s nothing there for him anymore. 

“You know we moved to that house to get away from all the labs and the trials and the protestors. We lived there for over twenty years together.”

“I know, Robert.” She reaches for him again. He moves out of her range so quickly his back cracks and he winces in pain. The blanket she covered him with slides off his lap. 

“You don’t know.” It’s his fault, really. “The closest thing you had to a home was my office.” She travels now. With Arthur. They still won’t settle. They have their own pasts that haunt, and they choose to run. 

She crosses her arms and leans back in the chair. Some time passes, but he can’t tell how much. He lost grasp on time years ago, and the pocket watch nestled against his breast stopped ticking almost as long ago. He didn’t build it to run forever, and when it broke, he never fixed it. By then he knew its weight. Its build. The curved lines etched in it. What he held in his hand wasn’t time, but the reminder of it. 

 

“It’s done, I’ve finished it!” he yells, lifting it up under a lamp on his desk. For the past week, it’s been covered in tiny gears and rotating pieces, while the other tables in the lab have been covered with syringes and bottles. 

Eames raises an eyebrow. His hair is a mess and his stubble isn’t so much stubble anymore, but quickly growing into a full beard. “And it works?” He asks this although Robert is sure he can hear the loud ticking from where he sits at the next table. 

“Of course,” Robert replies, still grinning. He slides his jacket back on and connects the chain to his inside pocket. Practices sliding it in and out. It’s a handsome watch – silver with thin black lines that curl and wind all around it into a beautiful design he drew himself. 

“Well let me see it then.” Eames stands, his joints of thirty popping. He reaches for it; Robert slaps his hand away.

“You’ve taught me better than that.” They’re both grinning, Robert’s fingers still clutching at the pocket watch. With one hand he feels its grooves, with the other takes Eames’ hand, rubbing between his knuckles. 

“Hm, that feels good.” Eames sprawls into his lap, nearly knocking him off the chair he’s in. Robert chuckles and runs his fingers all over – through his hair, over his ears and throat, down his back. The man beneath him groans and stretches like a cat. “You’re an angel.” 

“You ready to go home yet?” He’s pretty sure Eames is drooling on his pants. 

“Humph, not yet.” Eames crashes to his knees on the floor and then slowly stands up. Robert wishes he hadn’t said anything, then he might still have a warm lap. He knew the answer already, anyway. “Just a couple more hours, sweets, then we can go home and take a nice, long bath together.” He kisses his cheek. It’s only been quick, chaste kisses lately.

Robert feels hungry, and he’s so rarely had to feel hungry in his life. He pushes it down and smiles; he understands that when there are complications, there are long hours spent alone, but when there is triumph, there is much celebration. And there will be more triumph. He just has to wait. 

 

“Robert? Robert, are you alright?” Ariadne is touching him again. Shaking his shoulder. Standing over him and looking at him with such pity Robert hates himself.

“Fine.” He pulls out of her reach. Swiping at his face, he feels the deep, damp wrinkles there, and it’s a shock all over again. Every time. 

When she straightens, Ariadne pulls at the bottom of her jacket, smoothing the creases. “You can’t live in dreams, Robert. It never worked.”

“How would you know?” 

She picks up her chess piece. “We all tried, remember?” 

Robert laughs. Because no one ever dreamed like Eames and him did. They spent years of time together not only in this world, but lived many more years literally building their own world. They lived not only the lives of businessmen, but the lives of explorers, astronauts, kings. They lived in the past, present, and future all at once. No one will experience what they had. Certainly not Ariadne. She only went under a scant few times, claiming it made Arthur uneasy after what happened to Cobb. Eames pegged it for what it was right away – she was scared and looking for any excuse. She tried it enough to believe, and then she did. 

“Robert.” She’s going to try and touch him once more, he knows, so he stands stiffly. She follows him to the window. He hears her breath catch once, then twice, then, “Everyone is asking for interviews. I’m sure you know that, but a lot of people are talking, and not all of them are friends.”

Ah, Robert thinks. This is why she’s here. Someone is offering to pay her if she can convince him to go on some talk show and remind the world of both their victories and tragedies. 

“I think you should consider one as well. Set the record straight. Talk about all the breakthroughs and the therapies that helped thousands of people. Eames deserves the recognition. You deserve the recognition.” Her voice still holds all of its nicety and authority. He’s not surprised. 

“The last time I was willingly interviewed on television I was forty-six-year-old.” He was one of the richest men in the world at the time – and he was breaking apart his empire. He’s just an old man now. 

“I know.” The telephone rings. They both pause to glance at it. 

“It’s not you that’s been calling?” 

They both watch the flashing light. “No. Might be Arthur. Could be anyone. Like I said, you should have used a different name.”

She watches as he unplugs the line from the wall. “Dream share was Eames’ passion. His first and last project. It’s the one he would have wanted to be known for. Will you let the world continue believing that it’s just a fairy tale? That he failed in his longest pursuit?”

“Who will believe it without proof? You didn’t.”

Ariadne smiles at him. “All it takes is the idea. The seed that grows.” She slips her bishop into her jacket and gathers her purse. “Besides, the rumor is out there. You just need to add the gasoline.”

 

 

Eames has a needle in his hand; it’s larger than the ones used to draw blood, and when he takes it out Robert instinctively tugs at the cuffs of his shirt. His companion smiles at him, gently guiding him by the elbow into a conspicuous recliner in the middle of hard lab stools. “Just relax. Think of the place you want to be right now.”

Robert can’t think of a single such place. “You’re sure this will work?” He lies back in the chair, sinking in without any sense of control. The man above him takes his left arm and begins rolling up his sleeves. Initially, Robert flinches. He doesn’t like others touching him, doesn’t even let his father touch him. Not that he ever tries to – physical affection has never been part of his life. 

But now this man is massaging the juncture of his elbow, tracing his fingers along his veins. Slowly, Robert relaxes his jaw, but keeps a fist at Eames’ instruction. “Now, now, Mr. Fischer,” he says easily. “I haven’t experienced any lasting effects from the drug, so if nothing else, you’ll have a pretty dream, and if all goes well, I’ll meet you there.”

The needle slides under his skin and Robert closes his eyes, waiting. He doesn’t feel anything in particular, but listening to the other man further relaxes him. Eames settles into his side, both of them squished into the large chair. It’s awkward, and Robert tenses again, but then he’s pulled over slightly, resting more on top of Eames. Warm breath passes over the top of his head. He swallows thickly. 

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Fischer.” Fingers brush past his hair. He sleeps.

At first, Robert can’t tell if he’s dreaming or not, or even if his eyes are open because it’s so dark. He feels himself blink, touches his face and rolls from his back to his stomach. Something flashes - there’s a sliver of light in front of him. He crawls for it.

And emerges from under a bed. A large bed with a golden duvet. Inside a large room with floor to ceiling windows looking over a busy city. The walls are white and the furniture black, but bright red roses in full bloom sit in multiple locations around the room. 

Robert stands, heart racing. He knows this room, and one thing will prove to him it’s no mistake, he just has to will himself to turn around. On the long, lean dressing table across the bed between roses is a picture frame. The picture is a little boy sitting between his parents, and no one is smiling. 

He lets the frame fall to the ground. “Oh my God.” He turns to where he knows the door is – and it’s there – even though he knows it wasn’t there when he first crawled out from under the bed. 

Bolting outside, the next room is plush, an under furnished but expensively furnished living area. The white carpet is too white and the paintings on the wall too neat. There’s no other personal touches, as if the place were a model home and the picture left in the bedroom a mistake, a generic photo left in the frame they bought to let someone moving in know how lovely their life will be once they live here. 

“Robert?” A tentative voice behind him calls. He whips around to see Eames nervously standing where the kitchen begins. As he faces him, Eames’ face cracks in two.

“It works! It fucking works!” He laughs, rushing to his side and hugging him. He glances around the apartment, rubbing the stubble on his face, one hand still wrapped around Robert’s. “Or I’m going to assume it worked. This doesn’t look like anything I’d dream up alone. Well, besides one thing.” He glances over at Robert, smirking. 

He’s dreaming. Robert is dreaming, and he knows this because they moved from this apartment when he was nine and never stepped foot in it again because a storm whipped through it and damaged the structure. They never repaired it. It still stands empty in a city half way across the country. This is where he grew up before they moved the empire out west. He can’t even recognize the look on Eames’ face because he’s reeling. This isn’t right. It doesn’t feel right.

“I don’t want to be here. Wake me up.” He stumbles backwards. Suddenly, there’s a child’s toy under his foot tripping him. Father never let him keep any of his things outside of his playroom. This isn’t right. 

“Robert, relax. This is good news. Great news. This is exactly what we want!” Eames picks up the toy and gives it a shake. He feels the carpet, pulling from it a fiber to inspect. “This must feel infinitely more real to you. I’m impressed myself. I presume we’re in a memory. Your childhood home perhaps?” 

“I want to wake up. I can’t be here.” Robert is standing again. He whips around to where the front door is. It’s solid and very black and he can make out the light from the hallway underneath. 

“Robert? Are you alright? It’s only a dream, remember. We’ll wake up shortly. The timer’s set. Don’t worry.” Eames takes his arm, but Robert keeps pivoting, whirling around his surroundings. “Robert.” 

Eames catches him between both arms and holds him steady. By now Robert is breaking into a cold sweat and he feels ill. This isn’t what he wanted, not what he agreed to. He just wants to leave, but Eames clutches at him harder and harder until he can’t focus on anything else.

“Look at me. You’re alright.” He slides one hand up Robert’s arm and neck and into his hair, stroking it much the same way he did right before. Before they fell asleep. In the lab. Robert wishes for the lab back. Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills himself awake. 

“Robert.” Eames crushes him to his chest. It might be the first time it’s felt so good to be touched in any kind of way; Robert pulls at the back of the taller man’s shirt to get closer. He still feels sick, his thoughts beginning to center but his heart rate giving him away. If he can just stay here and not look at any of it, it’ll be alright. It’ll – 

The front door slams open. They both open their arms, still holding onto each other but with a small space between them. It’s a good thing too, because Robert’s knees feel a little weak.

“Father?” Maurice Fischer is standing in the doorway, looking murderous. Robert is used to being on the receiving end of that look, but he realizes that it’s not him on that receiving end this time. His father is looking at Eames, a man he’s never met before, like he’s going to gut him on the Persian rug. 

It’s not until Maurice pushes Eames away from his son that Robert notices all the lines in his face, the thin white whiskers sticking out of his chin. This Maurice is too old for the setting; this is not the Maurice of his childhood. This is the present day Maurice, on the thin side and thinning every day. 

“Something is wrong,” he whispers. Maurice throws Eames to the ground with more force than he would ever be able to muster. The attacked man grunts, trying to get back on his feet. 

“Do something, will you!” Eames yells right before Maurice has his hands around his throat. 

“I don’t –“ Robert is cut off by his elderly father picking up Eames and throwing him across the room through a glass table. Eames doesn’t move right away. “He’s not my father. He’s not my father –“ 

“He’s not!” Robert screams into a vaguely grey ceiling. He blinks. His throat is dry, his stomach churning, and a thin sheet of sweat cools on his forehead. When he tries to shift his body, he finds he can’t.

A groan beside him. He jerks in suspense. Wrenching his neck to the side, Eames is already looking at him, face inches from his, and behind him the lab. They’re back. They’re awake. Robert makes a pathetic noise of relief. There’s no Maurice or apartment of the past. This is home, this is safe.

Eames stares at him without blinking, a look of such unfocused concentration Robert wonders if he’s having some kind of waking fit. He exhales to say something – until his lips are covered. He gasps, the breath just barely escaping before Eames rolls over on top of him and all gaps, lines, and spaces are filled. 

When they part, Eames apologizes. “But you know I’ve wanted to do that for ages now.” Robert doesn’t reply because he’s still pinned beneath him, and the pleasure and panic of it are at war. 

“I –“ he stops. It’s hard to concentrate on any one thing right now. “What just happened?”

Eames grins. “It worked. We walked in the same dream together.” He laughs. “I was in your dream – one that you created – one that I couldn’t have possibly orchestrated!”

“And my father?” His companion’s grin doesn’t even fade as he stands up, rolling his shoulders and hurriedly walking to his drawing boards at the same time. 

“A complication, but a minor one, I think.” He begins scribbling notes in different places.

“He tried to kill you.” Robert focuses on Eames’ clean neck devoid of any bruising, his body clean of any scratches.

Eames briefly frowns, looking at something on the board. “Yes, unfortunate that.” The marker squeaks as he resumes writing. “However fortunate it is that we cannot die in our dreams.”

Robert feels like a small part of him has died after experiencing what just happened. The full implications are beginning to hit him – this drug could change everything. The very way they view life. “You sure about that?”

“It’s impossible that it would affect the physical body, however the mental body could be jeopardized in some way.” He tosses the marker down and turns to him. “It’s something that will have to be explored further.”

“You can’t be serious.” Robert finally stands from the recliner; he sways. Eames is there quickly, steadying him.

“Easy there.” He cups his hands under his elbows and pulls him closer to his chest. “Robert, you were screaming that the man wasn’t your father. What exactly did you mean?”

It’s getting even harder to think straight with him so close; the kiss too recent, it’s brought to the forefront of his mind. “I mean that it was him, but it wasn’t right. He looked too old to be in that setting. He looked how he looks now. He’s –“

Eames brushes his hair away from his forehead. “Sick. I know.”

There are few people who are supposed to know that. Robert doesn’t bother asking how he does. “It’s just – everything else was right. Just how I remembered it growing up. Except him. He didn’t fit.”

Eames hums, kissing him just barely where his hair meets forehead. “He’s part of your subconscious. A defense mechanism, I believe. I’ve had similar encounters in my own dreams of people that just don’t belong with what I’m creating, but they’ve never been hostile. This is new. It suggests a level of protection given to the dreamer creating. It’s fascinating.”

“If you say so.” The experience was nothing but disturbing for Robert.

“Ready to go under again?” Eames raises an eyebrow. Robert wavers a bit in his arms. He chuckles. “I’m kidding. You should go home and get some real rest.”

“I,” he stops. Suddenly the idea of going home alone and trying to sleep seems unfathomable. He could go back to his office and look over more of the Wyle files, but he is tired. Too tired to be alone. 

“Or if you prefer, give me a few minutes to tidy things away and then we could grab a bite to eat?” 

Immediately Robert exhales and relaxes. He’s sure Eames can feel it. He nods, casually leaning into the other man. He shuts his eyes and hopes to see nothing but the dark.

 

 

 

“Mr. Fischer, a great honor,” the man says. He’s typical for a host, Robert supposes – young, handsome, nice voice. When he shakes his hand it’s aggressive and rushed before he sits back in his seat in front of the camera. A makeup assistant is on him in an instant, brushing color over his nose. They bothered very little with Robert. 

Just an old man now, he thinks, leaning back in his chair; it’s uncomfortable and does nothing but remind him of where he is and why. He’s back in his suit – the same one he wore to the funeral – and he feels smaller than ever. A girl runs over with bottles of water for them and behind her men with headsets yell back and forth while working cameras over wires. They push in closer to him, all four of them. He avoids looking at the monitors mounted on the walls with his face on them; it’s almost as bad as looking in the mirror. 

The countdown begins. A crew member silently waves the last counts – three, two, one. “Very special guest we have with us today, Mr. Robert Fischer of the former Fischer Morrow. Once one of the richest men in the world, he not only worked in energy development but changed the direction of the company into pharmaceuticals in the early 2000’s with the aid of his partner.” He’s speaking so fast Robert can hardly understand him, but he catches enough of it to fill in the rest. Robert knows what they’ll want to talk about anyway.

“Can we start there, Mr. Fischer? When the two of you publically stepped out as a couple, you threw the paparazzi a huge bone. Your relationship was really one of a kind. What drew you to Eames the first time you met him?” 

Robert blinks a few times. He knows this is why they wanted to speak to him, it’s all about Eames now, but he’s thrown by the quick and direct approach. No easing in, he supposes, it’s all about instant gratification. 

 

 

“Robert,” a voice calls to him in a sing-songy manner. “Roberttt.” He groans, tossing in his stark white sheets. The voice above him laughs while gentle fingers trace through his hair. When he cracks his eyes open, he sees nothing, but hears footsteps leaving the room. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

When he sits up in bed, he realizes it must be later than he thought. The room is bright with sunlight reflecting off their white décor. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they do he finds himself alone.

“Robert.” The voice calls from another room. Tearing the sheets off his lower body, he stumbles out of the room. 

“Eames? Where are you?” He glances at the clock; it’s missing from its spot on the wall. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

He looks for the clock in the living room, but it’s not there either. In the kitchen, the time on the oven has been changed to an hour he’s positive it can’t actually be. Frowning, he walks back into the living room. “Eames?”

“I’m in here.” It sounds like it’s coming from the bedroom again, but when he looks in, Eames isn’t there. 

“Eames, this isn’t funny. We have work to do.” He drops to his knees and looks under the bed. Why, he isn’t sure. He pulls open the door to their attached bathroom but it’s empty too. He walks into the walk-in, then walks back out. He hears a chuckle, but as soon as he turns to its source there’s nothing there. “Eames?”

Irrationally, he’s beginning to panic. It’s stupid; he knows Eames is in here somewhere, but there’s a nagging doubt beginning to form at the back of his mind. He glances down at the hardwood floors beneath his feet. Have they always been that color? 

“Gotcha!” Eames yells, suddenly at his side, swinging him into his arms. He lifts Robert off the floor and kisses him. 

“Put me down.” The smaller of the two struggles out of his arms and looks around him. “Am I dreaming?” He hasn’t told his partner yet that he has a projection in his form now, and even if there are no projections around, there’s always an Eames-like shadow somewhere in his dreams.

“Darling, calm down. Where’s your watch?” Of course – of all the places to check. Robert pats down his body but he isn’t wearing any clothes. He rushes into the bedroom to his nightstand. The watch sits there ticking. He holds it to his chest where it usually sits, listening to it, testing the weight. When he opens it, it tells him it’s almost noon. He breaths out evenly – that sounds about right. It’s just another sunny day in LA. 

“What were you doing?” Robert asks the man poised in the doorway who’s giving him a once over with a concerned look. 

“I was surprising my boyfriend with breakfast in bed on our day off.”

“No you weren’t.” Robert brushes past him. “There’s nothing in the kitchen-“ He stops. The noise fades in as he looks over the bacon cracking over the stove and the kettle begins to whistle. There are plates laid out, one with a pile of pancakes and another with steaming eggs. A pitcher of orange juice sits on a tray with flowers lying across it. 

Robert squeezes the watch in his hand so hard he hears something crack. When he opens his palm, the hands have stopped moving. He stares. 

“Darling, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” His voice croaks. “I think you’re right. I just need the day off.” He turns around and smiles reassuringly, or at least tries to. He hopes Eames doesn’t see through him. Eames, who has enough of his own doubts already. Robert can’t add to them now. “I’ve never had a boyfriend cook me breakfast before.”

“Well you are long overdue then.” Eames slides a hand around his waist and pulls him towards the plates. “Although just so you know,” he stops to push back Robert’s dark hair, “you’re the first boyfriend I’ve ever made breakfast for.”

“How about we move this back to bed then, hm?” Robert runs the tip of his nose along the other man’s collarbone. He’s that much closer when the low laugh rumbles through them both. Even in the moment of panic, it’s enough to make him smile. 

As they tumble into the sheets, Robert wonders if he can fall back to sleep.

 

 

“I think that brings us to perhaps your longest venture, and probably your biggest disappointment,” the interview remarks, his grin never faltering. “The idea of dream sharing. That two or more people can create and coexist within one tangible dream. This is what brought you two together, after all.”

“Yes, we developed it over many years.” Robert glances out over the audience-less seats. There’s nothing but black out there. Everything in the peripheral. “It was our first project, and in many ways our last.”

“It’s a shame it never worked out. I can’t think of a single person who wouldn’t pay for that kind of experience.” 

Robert smiles, hands folded in his lap. He doesn’t watch the other man’s face when he answers. “Well, of course it worked. How could it have not worked? Do you think we worked on something for over thirty years without results? When a man as brilliant as my husband put his mind to something, he usually achieved it.”

“I’m sorry - are you trying to say it’s possible?” The interviewer clearly is humoring him, one eyebrow raised. He reaches for his water in mild irritation. 

“We dreamed together nearly every day.”

“How is that possible?”

“He developed the drug to do it. Carefully administered to the dreamers at the same time in a connected device. Of course, it required some skill to do it successfully. We had test dreamers who simply got lost within a dream, were never able to find other dreamers. To them the experience was just a heightened one.”

The man across from him flips through note cards quickly. “Are you referring to a Dominick Cobb, at one point employed in your company under the dream share objective? Mr. Cobb killed himself in a psychiatric facility, did he not?”

One of his eyes twitches, a controlled wince. The man did his research after all. It hardly matters now. “Dom was an unfortunate accident. He never woke up from the dream, you could say.”

“You publically denounced the idea of dream sharing after all, and all research was halted post the demise of Cobb.”

“We stopped researching with others, and we stopped publishing any kind of progress. It became clear it would never be feasible in a mass produced environment.”

 

The door to the lab is heavy, but when Robert knocks into it from a run, it hits the opposite wall with such force it dents in, the door stuck now stuck there. “Eames?” He yells. In front of him, the tables are knocked over, papers spilled everywhere. The drawing boards pushed into odd places around the room, one tilted over because a wheel is missing. 

“Eames!” Under his feet glass cracks. The room isn’t big enough to conceal anyone, but he looks anyway. Just down the hall he runs into a custodian. “Have you seen him?”

“Think he was headed to the roof,” the man replies, but before he can say anything more Robert darts into the stairwell. Two or three stairs at a time he climbs until he bursts through the top most door. 

With his eyes adjusted to the light, he still doesn’t see anyone. “Eames!” He circles the rooftop. He’s gone around twice looking at the edge for a figure, not realizing he’s sitting against the entrance to the stairs. When he turns and sees Eames hunched against the brick, he lets out a loud breath. 

They stay where they are, watching each other. Robert is thinner than ever before, a streak of grey coming in at his temple. Eames’s eyes are unfocused and his shirt is missing. There are bruises along his arms, tiny puncture holes tracing them. This, Robert thinks, is the complete picture.

 

“May I ask what your plans are now, Mr. Fischer?” Now that your husband is dead, Robert mentally adds. It’s what the man means. “Will you reopen the venture of dream sharing again now that you’ve announced it’s more than feasible?”

The interviewer hasn’t been listening to a word he’s said. They’ve skimmed over all their accomplishments, the benefactors of their hard work, and Robert’s personal life, the turbulent relationship with his father before Maurice Fischer’s untimely death. Robert and Eames now stand for an idea, and that idea will be all that’s left of them. 

“Now I spend the last of my days wondering when the dream will end.” It’s not the answer the interviewer was hoping for, and delivered in such a bleak voice everything stops. The mild, but silent restlessness on the other side of the cameras as the entire crew stops to look at him. Really look at him. And Robert can’t hide his face anymore. The interviewer keeps a phony grin plastered on, but glances to the side where the director is barely visible in the control booth. Robert glances out the to the empty seats and waits for the red lights on the cameras to go out. 

 

 

“You have the strangest toes I’ve ever seen.” A snort of laughter sends a wave of air down his neck. Contrasted by the warmth of the water, goosebumps follow.

“What do you mean?” Robert automatically flexes them inwards from where they’re kicked up on the spout. 

“Well stop doing that. Keep them natural.” Eames is smiling. He can tell, even if his eyes are closed. He can feel it against the top of his head where it lays against his chest. 

“What does that even mean?”

“It means when your toes are relaxed they’re fucking fully extended.” He laughs. “Seriously, look at them.” Robert spreads his toes out. “That’s how they look all the time! It’s freaky.”

“It’s a quirky but cute trait, is what I think you mean to say.” Robert doesn’t want to open his eyes. He knows what this is. He doesn’t need to look.

“It’s freaky.” They both laugh, the water shaking around them. 

“Not at all like how your –“ he starts.

“Oh no, no no.” A warm, soapy hand covers his mouth and rests there lightly. “We are not going there.” 

They lie there in their smiles until his hand falls away and Robert turns over on his chest, crossing his arms and laying his head on top of them. “Next time you bring up my weird toes.”

“They’re beautiful. Never said differently.” Wet fingers massage his scalp. He sighs, completely satisfied. Every moment should be as clear as this. “Just weird.”

“Fuck off.” Robert finally opens his eyes, moving so he can splash Eames properly in the face. The smile that results is so beautiful, sloppy and wet and imperfect because his hair is flat on one side and sticking up everywhere on the other, that Robert forgets what he was going to say next. 

“I lament the day we met and you seduced me with your wicked American ways,” Eames says as he stands from the bath. He shakes himself off on the bath rug giving Robert a lovely view of his ass. He props his elbows on the top of the tub and stares unabashedly. 

“You love it.” It’s a flippant response as he rolls onto his back. The water is still lukewarm, and he always stays in until it’s cold. 

“I love _you_.” 

 

 

The interview doesn’t air until he’s home. Even as the hired car pulls up in the dark, he can tell the garden has overgrown in the short time he’s been away. He walks around the back so he can sit on the stone bench there, the inside locked up tight. He rubs his fingers over the key inside his pant pocket and stalls. 

Inside those windows and doors, inside the bed and shower, on the living room couch or kitchen counter, there’s nothing waiting. It’s empty inside. Eames promised him he’d never live alone again, and despite all the late hours or the nights they never went home at all, they were always together. Even in those early months when Robert didn’t know what to do with him. Eames would show up in his office, at his usual spots, or at his apartment. He hated that apartment as much as the one he grew up in. It wasn’t until Eames was there, forcing his way in, that he could tolerate spending any real time there. 

And now there’s this house. Time will make it more miserable than any apartment because this once held the happiest memories, and the happiest dreams. So he sits there and stalls for a few minutes longer, until the chill in the air sets his fingers numb. It takes a few tries to get the door open, and when he walks through the kitchen he keeps the lights off. 

He makes it to the bedroom but stands in the doorway. The bed is perfectly made, just the roses by the nightstand are wilting, making a delicate mess. 

The phone rings. Robert glances at it, watching the red light blink at him. The sound is shrill and awful. It keeps ringing, and now there’s nothing to distract him anymore. 

He picks it up. After a moment of silence, on the other end: “Fischer.” He exhales; it’s a voice he recognizes, just barely. The youthfulness is gone from it, but he remembers. 

“It’s been awhile,” the other end remarks.

“Not long enough.” Robert would have been fine never hearing from him again. Neither say anything for a long stretch, but finally Robert gets tired. He’s worn down. So he bites. “What do you want? Did she make it back alright?”

“Just fine. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“You’ve been calling.” He sits on the bed. It’s cold. The entire house is cold. He sets his one piece of luggage beside him and gently touches one of the fallen rose petals. 

“It’s customary to offer one’s condolences in these cases, I believe.”

Robert lies back. “I assure you they’re not needed.” Not from him. 

“I am sorry.” He sounds sincere, but Robert wouldn’t trust it. The man’s a fine actor, of that much he was always sure. “About Eames. He was the best.” It’s a simple way to describe him, but yes. Eames was the best of them all. 

“Why are you really calling?” He has no right to. There’s more hesitation on the other end.

Then, “I just saw the interview.” A beat. “Still carrying around that old pocket watch?” It’s a ridiculous and superfluous question; Robert still has the watch on him at all times just as the caller still has his weighted die sitting in the bottom of the charcoal grey pants he’s undoubtedly wearing currently. “It’s still working?”

“No. It stopped long ago.” Robert pulls it from the inside of his jacket. Turns it in his hands. 

“Then how do you know?”

Because he could never have dreamt this up. It was far too happy. 

 

 

“Are you sure you want to head back already?” Eames asks, sticking out his tongue to catch the falling rain. “What with this lovely weather?”

It’s just a light drizzle, enough that they’re mostly soaked now, but not enough that they’re in any real rush. Robert still clutches his broken watch in one hand, tucked away in his pocket. He keeps his other arm full of Eames. 

“You’re a child.” Robert is smiling anyway. Eames sticks his tongue back in his mouth and scoffs.

“Inappropriate comment, especially given activities as of late!” He gives him a small shove just to undermine his point. Robert immediately leans back into him, and the taller man automatically makes room for him under his arm. 

The building is in sight; Robert eyes it wearily. After breakfast that morning, which they finally finished close to one that afternoon, they decided to get out and have fresh air, mostly at Robert’s insistence. Now he’s not sure he wants to be back there – it’s been more tolerable as of late besides that morning, but he still thinks right now he’d rather be at the office.

“What’s he doing here?” Robert asks, frowning when he notices Arthur sitting in the lobby. Their unexpected guest nods at the two of them as they walk in, but doesn’t stand or acknowledge them in any other way. 

“Don’t know. Probably waiting for Ariadne, who is probably upstairs looking for you.” Eames doesn’t seem bothered by his presence at all, leading Robert toward the elevator by his elbow. 

“Right.” Beyond curiosity, Robert finds he doesn’t really care if the younger man is there or not. Except when they open the door to his apartment and step in, there is no sign of Ariadne. It doesn’t look like she was ever there. 

This certainly doesn’t bother Eames; he flops onto the couch, stretching out and covering the entirety of it by himself. His head is daggling by the coffee table where fresh roses taunt him in an immaculate vase. He’s focused on them as Robert collapses on top of him.

He grunts, but shifts to make room for him. They lay face-to-face, one on top of the other, carefully folding together. Robert props his chin on top of folded hands on Eames’ chest. Closes his eyes and lets the rocking of the breathing beneath him comfort him. 

“I think we should move.” 

“Hm?” Robert cracks one eye open, just to check how serious Eames looks. His partner has begun using the word we a lot, but talk about moving is new.

“I know you don’t care much for this place, and I’ve always wanted to live in the country,” he says. His eyes are serene, dreamy. His hands comb through Robert’s hair. It’s the touch that calms him down the most, and it’s the first one Eames learned. 

“We work here in the city though.” Even though he looks fairly serious, Robert knows they can’t. No matter how much his heart swells with the thought of buying a house that’s meant just for the two of them. 

“I know. I’m not saying right now, but later. After we’re famous for our contributions to the world.” He chuckles. 

“Planning to save the world?” Robert leans into his exploring fingers.

“Maybe. I promised to deliver certain things to you and your company.” His fingers pause over his cheek. “I plan to keep all my promises.”

Robert smiles and rolls over onto his back, pulling the thick arms around him and closing his eyes. “Well then maybe we’ll live happily ever after.”

“Plan on it.” They close their eyes, they fall into each other, and they sleep.


End file.
